


Enough For Now

by LapisLazuli



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angry Life-Affirming Anal Sex, M/M, Romance, Smut, and all that good stuff, emotional smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-18
Updated: 2013-06-18
Packaged: 2017-12-15 08:18:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/847330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LapisLazuli/pseuds/LapisLazuli
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock grunted, but John ignored it, focusing instead on working his tongue along the seam of Sherlock’s lips.  He needed this, needed something, to prove that Sherlock was still here, alive and in his arms, and it was either this or beating him bloody.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Enough For Now

**Author's Note:**

> This is a smutty little one-shot I wrote for the "Let's Write Sherlock" Challenge 1 over on Tumblr. The prompt was "After a nearly disastrous case, Sherlock and John share a tense taxi ride back to Baker Street. With emotions running high, they finally arrive back at 221B, and then…". This is my take on that. It's completely cliché, but it was a ton of fun to write.

John deliberately watched London slide past as the taxi coasted through the night, resolutely looking out the window and not at the sulking idiot sitting across from him.  His thoughts tried to wander to the case they had just completed, to the tense minutes during which he was almost certain that he was going to watch Sherlock die, but he blocked that train of thought and pulled his mind back to contemplating the city.  Simple, harmless thoughts.  Thoughts that did not cause his heart to hammer in his chest, his lungs to burn.  Thoughts that did not make him throb with the need to grab the git and shake some bloody sense into him.

The taxi pulled up outside of 221 Baker Street.  John opened his door and stepped out without waiting or offering to pay.  A petty revenge, maybe, but he was not above it.  He closed the door with deliberate firmness and turned a smart ninety degrees.  Then he marched around the car to the door of the building, pausing only briefly to unlock it.  He ascended the stairs to the flat with the same firm, measured step.

He could feel the adrenaline from their earlier confrontation still pulsing in his veins; heightening all of his senses, filling him with restless energy and the need to act, to do something with his fear and his rage.  He was aware of Sherlock, his tread light on the stairs behind him.  He did not turn.

Once in the flat, John felt confined.  He was too agitated to make tea, to sit calmly and read.  Too furious to even attempt to talk to Sherlock yet.  If he spoke now, he was certain that he would say cruel, hurtful things.  Things he did not really mean, motivated by his fear and his anger, things that would slam Sherlock’s mouth shut and drive the light from his eyes.  John wanted to hurt him, right now.  Just a little bit, just to show him, to make him see how much he had hurt John already with his stupid unnecessary risks.

But he would not do it.  So instead, he paced.

John marched back and forth across the sitting room, still taking carefully measured steps and turning with military precision at the end of each pass to move back in the other direction.  Sherlock, following him into the room, threw off his coat and climbed into his chair, braced on his feet with his knees up under his chin.  He watched John, and John knew it, but he ignored Sherlock’s intense gaze in favor of staring straight ahead and counting his steps.

On step seventy-two, Sherlock spoke.

“You’re being ridiculous.”

John’s pace faltered for a moment, but he did not look at Sherlock and he did not respond.  Inside, he felt his rage crank up another notch, adrenaline slamming through him still.  He continued pacing.

Step one hundred and seven.  “I was never in any real danger, you know.”

John continued pacing.

Step one hundred and thirty-three.  “Really, John, this level of obtuseness is baffling, even for you.  You must see that I had the situation under control-”

“Shut up.”  John was livid.  Absolutely fucking livid.  He did not stop, did not turn his head, but he needed Sherlock to stop speaking.  Fucking immediately.  Because if he did not, then John might do something he would later regret.

Unfortunately, engagement of any sort just encouraged Sherlock and he responded immediately.  “No.  You are overreacting, John.  I knew that he wouldn’t shoot.  The pattern of calluses on his hands-”

“Stop talking.”  And John stopped pacing.  He just stood, fists clenched tightly at his sides, breathing too hard and staring fixedly at the wall.  Sherlock shifted where he crouched in his chair.

“Not until you admit that I-”

And just like that, John reached his limit.  He spun, fast as a blink, and grabbed Sherlock by the collar of his ludicrously tight shirt.  Instantly he jerked the man forward, and Sherlock tipped out of the chair.  He stumbled and would have fallen before he could get his feet beneath him, but John’s grip on his collar held him upright.  Then John pulled him forward until the two were pressed chest to chest, their faces only inches apart.  John narrowed his eyes as he glared unblinking into Sherlock’s otherworldly gaze.

“Shut.  The.  Fuck.  Up.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed.

“Make me.”

And for a moment, just for the skin of a second, John thought he might actually hurt Sherlock.  Not just yell at him, or even punch him, but really and truly hurt him.  His rage peaked to a level that was nearly tangible, squeezing his lungs and his heart in a vice grip, and his hand tightened on Sherlock’s collar until he could see the fabric pulling into the skin of Sherlock’s throat.

He clenched his jaw until it hurt, staring directly into Sherlock’s eyes as he balanced precariously on the cusp of his rage and fear, and the emotion underlying them all, the driving force that fueled his desire and his need.  Love.

John jerked Sherlock’s face down to his, crushing their lips together in a bruising kiss.

Sherlock grunted, but John ignored it, focusing instead on working his tongue along the seam of Sherlock’s lips.  He needed this, needed something, to prove that Sherlock was still here, alive and in his arms, and it was either this or beating him bloody.  Nothing else would fill his need.

Almost immediately, Sherlock’s lips parted, and he moaned loudly as John slipped his tongue into his mouth.  He tasted of stale coffee, and faintly John thought he could just barely make out the flavor of gun oil and sulfur, lingering where the barrel of a gun had been forced between those beautiful lips only an hour earlier.  John dragged his tongue across Sherlock’s lips, sliding into his mouth to lap at the inside, trying to remove every last trace of that phantom taste, wipe out the horrible memory that accompanied it.

Unbidden, an image popped into John’s mind of Sherlock on his knees, hands bound behind him and gun barrel seated firmly in his mouth, staring up at the madman who was ranting and shouting and raging at the universe as his finger trembled on the trigger.  John groaned and yanked on Sherlock’s collar, trying to pull him impossibly closer as he kissed him even harder.  In response, Sherlock moaned again, stroking John’s tongue with his, and brought his hands up to rest tentatively on John’s shoulders.

John pulled still harder for a moment before releasing his grip on Sherlock’s collar.  Before the other man could react, he brought both hands down to the placket of Sherlock’s designer shirt, gripped, and ripped the shirt open.  Buttons popped free, a few pattering against John’s chest before falling to the ground, and Sherlock’s shirt gaped open.  Instantly, John’s hands slipped inside and he ran them over and over the smooth skin.

John scraped his nails hard down Sherlock’s back, under his shirt.  In response, Sherlock broke away from their fierce kiss with a sharp gasp, turning his face up to the ceiling.  Immediately, John dropped his head to Sherlock’s throat, sucking hard at the soft skin, nipping and biting and laving it with his tongue, leaving behind a trail of dark marks and bruises.

He needed this, he thought.  He needed to mark Sherlock, to brand him.  Sherlock was his, and only his, and John needed to lay his claim in a manner that could not be ignored.  He would mark him, here and now, and woe to whomever might come behind and attempt to take what was his.  At this thought he dragged his nails down Sherlock’s back again, harder this time, his jagged fingernails biting into the tender skin as he bit down on the flesh of his throat.  Sherlock gasped again before releasing a long, loud moan.

They broke apart, both panting, and John took a small step back to create some space.  He looked at Sherlock, disheveled and marked up with bruises and love-bites, his lips plump and pink, and Sherlock gazed back at him with wide-open eyes.  Neither moved for one beautiful, crystalline moment, locked in each other’s gaze.

Then Sherlock lipped his lips, tongue flashing pink and wet in his mouth, and John was undone.

He pushed Sherlock’s shirt from his shoulders until it caught on his arms, and then dropped his fingers down to pinch Sherlock’s tight pink nipples.  Sherlock let out a surprised little “oh,” and John had to grit his teeth against the overwhelming wave of arousal that rocked him.  He pinched them harder and then bent his head to take one between his lips.  Sherlock made the little sound again and one of his hands crept around the back of John’s head, fingers scratching lightly through his hair.

John let his eyes fall closed, reveling in the feeling of Sherlock beneath his hands and mouth, taking in the tiny gasps and grunts that Sherlock could not seem to stop making.  He let his teeth close around the nipple in his mouth and Sherlock let out a long, low moan.

Again, the image of Sherlock kneeling with a gun in his mouth popped into John’s mind, filling the darkness in the space behind his eyes, this time accompanied by the low, pained moan Sherlock made when the bastard struck him on the side of the head with the gun.  The image was powerfully, viscerally terrifying and John jerked backward away from Sherlock, his eyes flying open wide and raking Sherlock’s form yet again to make sure that he was not injured.

Of course, Sherlock was fine; he was here with John, intact and well, panting and staring at him with an expression of confused want.  But the picture in his mind, of Sherlock about to eat a bullet, would not dissipate.  John reached out and grabbed Sherlock, pulling him in to a tight hug, nipping at his earlobe and licking the thin skin behind his ear.

“You fucking bastard,” he panted into Sherlock’s ear as he held him.  In answer, Sherlock’s arms came around John and squeezed tight.

John needed to erase the horrible memory from his mind, replace it with something better, something beautiful.  If he did not, it would haunt him forever.

As soon as this thought occurred to him, John knew exactly what he needed.

He stepped back from the embrace and pushed Sherlock’s arms behind his back.  Moving forward again until they were chest to chest, John looked around Sherlock’s shoulder as he deliberately slid the shirt down his arms.  He stopped it when it was bunched around Sherlock’s wrists and twisted the fabric taut before looping it around Sherlock’s hands, effectively binding his wrists behind his back.  Then, he pushed Sherlock to his knees.

Sherlock folded gracefully to the floor without resistance.  He knelt, hands trapped behind his back, and looked up at John, still wearing that wide-eyed expression of surprise and desire.  John looked down at him, taking a moment to absorb the image and letting it sink into his mind.  This, _this,_ was what he wanted to see when he thought of Sherlock on his knees.  Nothing but this.  Then John lowered his hands to the flies of his trousers.

Sherlock’s eyes jumped to John’s hands and he watched raptly as John unfastened his trousers, tongue peeking out as he licked his lips once more.  John worked quickly, opening his trousers and pushing them down along with his pants, his erection bobbing gently as it was freed from the confines of his clothing.

Sherlock paused, staring, and then leaned forward and flicked his tongue softly across the head of John’s cock.  John bit back groan at the sight, the _feel_ of it, and instead made a rough choking sound.  Sherlock looked up at him through his lashes and flashed a wicked little grin before moving forward and beginning to lap the length of John’s cock in earnest.

John whimpered, fighting the urge to let his head tip back and his eyes fall shut.  He wanted to watch this, needed to watch.  He set his jaw and kept his eyes on Sherlock.

Sherlock puckered his lips and brought them just to the tip of John’s erection.  His eyes fluttered shut, and then he moved his head forward, letting his lips come open just enough for John’s cock to slide into the hot wet space of his mouth.  He kept going until the head was pressing into the back of his throat, John’s whole length engulfed in the heat and slickness of his mouth.  John groaned at the sensation, waves of pleasure washing through him.

Sherlock set a slow, sweet rhythm, bobbing his head back and forth, letting John’s cock push in and out of his mouth with constant gorgeous suction.  John watched, completely enraptured, as his shaft disappeared between Sherlock’s perfect, heart-shaped lips.  His whole body was rocked with incredible bliss, but it was not enough.  Not yet.

“Sherlock, look at me.”

Sherlock did, raising his gaze to meet John’s even as he continued to suck John’s cock.  And this, this was perfect, this was exactly right.  From this moment, whenever John thought of Sherlock on his knees with something in his mouth, it would be this incredible image that he would see in his mind.  Not the other, the horrible picture of his Sherlock on the verge of being destroyed forever.  And he would not feel anger, or terror, or helplessness, as he had then.  No, what he would see would be this image: Sherlock looking up from his knees, hands bound behind his back, his eyes wide and shining with desire, John’s cock pressing his lips apart and filling the space inside his mouth.  And he would remember only these feelings, of joy and pleasure and power.  Just these.

John brought up his hands and threaded his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, gripping his head and taking control of his rhythm.  He thrust his cock smoothly between those decadent lips, finally giving in to the urge to let his head roll back and his eyes close as he allowed the sensation of Sherlock’s mouth sliding along his length to overwhelm him.  Pleasure crackled up his spine as he drank in the feeling.

After a few infinite minutes, Sherlock’s rhythm faltered.  John managed to come back to himself enough to look down, and he saw that Sherlock was bucking his hips in a fruitless search for friction and pulling against the shirt that bound his hands, even as he moaned around John’s cock in his mouth.  The sight brought another wave of arousal and possessive lust crashing down on him.

John released Sherlock’s head and stepped back, watching with raw desire as Sherlock leaned forward, eyes still closed, trying to recapture John’s cock with his lips.  He let out a quiet whimper when he could not find it, and opened his eyes to look up at John.

John smiled as Sherlock’s eyes met his and gently stroked one hand through Sherlock’s hair.  Sherlock closed his eyes and leaned into the caress like a cat, turning his head so that John’s palm trailed down his cheek.  John licked his lips.

“Sherlock, turn around.”  When he spoke, John’s voice came out rough and harsh with arousal.  Sherlock’s eyes snapped open again and he looked at John for a long second before complying.

Once he had awkwardly shuffled around on his knees until he was facing his chair with his back to John, Sherlock went still.  John smiled at the compliance and stroked Sherlock’s hair once more.  Then he placed his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and gently folded him forward, supporting Sherlock’s weight carefully, until his head and shoulders rested on the leather seat of his padded chair, hands still fixed behind his back by the twisted shirt.

John paused for a moment to admire the view of Sherlock’s firm round arse, on display for him at this angle, and then stroked a hand across one lush cheek.  Sherlock shuddered and let out a soft, gasping breath.

John dropped to his knees behind Sherlock and reached his hands around beneath him to the flies of Sherlock’s trousers, letting his own bare cock, still moist from Sherlock’s mouth, press against the clothed crack of his arse.  Sherlock rocked gently into the pressure, moaning out loud as John’s questing fingers pressed against his hard cock before finding the button on his trousers.

John opened Sherlock’s trousers and wasted no time yanking them down, along with his silk boxers.  He backed away and carefully pulled them all the way down Sherlock’s legs, letting Sherlock shift awkwardly until he could get them off completely.  Then Sherlock was completely naked with the exception of the shirt twisted around his wrists, kneeling on the sitting room rug with his arse on display and his hands bound behind him, his face pressed into the seat of his chair.  John’s breath caught at the beauty of him.

Sliding himself between Sherlock’s spread legs, John did not bother to remove his own clothes.  He just pushed his trousers down a bit further so that they would not get in the way and pulled his shirt up.

John rested his right hand on Sherlock’s hip, immediately squeezing tight and watching his fingers sink into the soft, smooth flesh.  He sucked the first two fingers of his left hand into his mouth and ran his tongue over them, careful to get them very wet.  Then he pulled them out of his mouth and dragged them down the crack of Sherlock’s arse.

Sherlock trembled under his hand, sighing and spreading his knees further apart.  John did it again, letting his fingertip catch in Sherlock’s hole for a moment before continuing the slow slide, and Sherlock gasped.  The sound sent a pulse of arousal through John, and suddenly he could not wait another second.

He needed this, to feel Sherlock, warm and gasping and alive in a way that was completely undeniable.  To feel him as intimately as possible, every single part of him.  And from the way that Sherlock was responding, seeking his touch, pressing backward into his hand, John was certain that Sherlock needed it just as much.

He slipped one spit-slicked finger into Sherlock’s hole, closing his eyes against the sensation of the tight muscles clenching down on the intrusion, and Sherlock let out a soft moan.  John immediately started pumping his finger in and out of the snug passage, reveling in the heat and softness he felt.  Sherlock was breathing hard, letting out occasional soft moans and sighs as John worked his arse, arching his back and tilting his hips to open himself up further.

As soon as John felt the grip on his finger start to loosen, he slipped in a second finger.  Sherlock let out a much louder moan at that and his hips bucked once before he stilled himself again.  John immediately started pushing both fingers in and out of Sherlock’s arse fast and hard.  Sherlock gave an open-mouthed groan at the feeling, which devolved into a series of loud grunts as John thrust his fingers ruthlessly in and out.

Then John carefully hooked his fingers, slowing the speed of his thrusts as he searched for that specific spot….  As John’s fingers dragged across his prostate, Sherlock’s hips bucked hard and he lifted his head from the cushion of the seat to let out a wordless shout.  John grinned fiercely and started working his fingers in and out of Sherlock’s tight hole again, careful to make sure that his fingertips pressed against Sherlock’s prostate with every pass.

The sight of Sherlock writhing, impaled on his fingers, brought John right to the edge, arousal throbbing in his veins.  His erection was achingly hard, precome leaking slowly from the tip, and the rhythmic clench of Sherlock’s inner muscles along the length of his fingers was so intense that John had to fight against the need to replace them with his cock immediately.  Instead, he worked Sherlock harder with his fingers and pressed his length up against the sweet swell of Sherlock’s arse cheek.

The pressure was beautiful, and John moaned as his eyes fell shut.  Sherlock gasped in a sharp breath and his hips bucked rapidly at the sound.

“John, John please!  I need… I need… oh, fuck!” Sherlock choked out as John rubbed his fingers hard against his prostate.  He bucked again, pushing backward into the feeling.  “John, fuck me.”

At that, a wave of arousal passed through John that made his whole body shiver.  He let his hand fall still, looking down at the magnificent sight before him.  Sherlock was still bent over the chair, his face turned to the side so that John could barely see his profile where his head pressed into the cushion.  His back was arched, arse spread wide open, knees as far apart as they could go.  His hands were bound near the base of his spine with a thick twist of dark blue fabric, and beneath his arms John could see that his back was crisscrossed with overlapping red lines from where John had marked him with his nails.  His skin glowed like alabaster in the soft light.

John swallowed against the sudden lump in his throat.

“Are you sure?”  John was not at all certain that two fingers and some spit constituted enough preparation, but although he had lube upstairs, he had no intention of leaving Sherlock here long enough to go fetch it.

“God, yes, _please,”_ Sherlock moaned out in his low warm-honey voice.  John shut his eyes and took a long shuddering breath.

When he opened his eyes, Sherlock had twisted his head as much as he could to look at John over his shoulder.  John caught his eye and nodded, and Sherlock smiled before letting his head fall back onto the chair and arching his back further.

John considered for a moment, and then sat back on his heels and leaned forward, gripping Sherlock’s arse cheeks with both hands and pulling them apart.  He trailed his tongue down the crack of Sherlock’s arse until he reached his hole and dragged it in tight circles around the tiny opening, drinking in Sherlock’s breathy moans and gasps.  Then he let his tongue slip inside.

Sherlock let out a loud, high-pitched sound and pressed his arse back further onto John’s face as he worked him with his tongue.  John pressed back, pushing his tongue as deep into the tight passage as he could, taking care to press as much saliva as possible into the already slick space.  Once it was as wet as he could get it he pulled back, ignoring Sherlock’s bereft whimper.

John reared up and scooted forward, lining his cock up with Sherlock’s hole.  Then he pulled Sherlock’s cheeks apart, leaned forward, and spat directly onto Sherlock’s arsehole.  The loud moan Sherlock released at that was a surprise, and John felt himself tremble with desire at the sound.

Slowly, carefully, John moved forward until his cock was just brushing up against Sherlock’s warm, slick hole.  Sherlock shivered in John’s firm grip but did not move, his breath coming in panting gulps.  John waited, letting arousal and anticipation fill him up, for the space of several breaths.  Then he pushed forward, sliding his cock into Sherlock’s tight wet passage in one smooth thrust.

Sherlock let out a whimpering moan as John pushed into him, all his muscled going tense for an instant before he relaxed.  John held still, his cock completely sheathed in Sherlock’s tight arse, just letting the incredible sensations wash over him.  He drew back slowly, so slowly, feeling every ripple as Sherlock’s passage clenched around his length.  Then he squeezed his hands down on Sherlock’s hips and pounded forward, slamming his cock into his arse with bruising force.

Sherlock called out, his head coming up off the chair as he arched up.  With his hands bound he did not have any leverage, and all he could do was ride John’s thrusts, moaning continuously.

John fucked Sherlock ruthlessly, pulling him backward with the grip on his hips each time he slammed forward.  Sherlock rocked with each thrust, forehead pressing into the seat of the chair, his own cock hanging full and heavy between his legs.  He let out a harsh grunt each time John’s cock slammed home.

Quickly, all too quickly, John could feel his orgasm rushing up on him, pleasure tingling down his spine and tension pooling in his abdomen.  Wanting to make it last, he pushed hard into Sherlock’s slick heat and stopped, his head hanging down as he panted and tried to catch his breath.

Instantly, Sherlock let out a high-pitched whine and started to buck and writhe in John’s hands, trying desperately to slide up and down John’s length again.  The muscles of his passage clenched down on John’s cock as he twitched and whimpered, rocking forward and back in an attempt to impale himself further.

John bared his teeth, flush with an intense feeling of power at the sight of Sherlock moaning and bucking below him, frantic for his cock.  His grip on Sherlock’s hips tightened, pinning the thrashing body in place, and he dragged his hard cock slowly out of Sherlock’s hole until only the head was still inside before pushing back in just as slowly, without a pause.  Sherlock’s pained whimpers got louder and his squirming more frantic at the feeling of the slow steady fucking.  His spine bent and arched as he struggled to take John faster, harder.

“Oh please, John please,” he begged, voice gone breathy and high.  John grinned fiercely.

He released Sherlock’s hip with one hand and reached beneath the squirming body until his fingers found Sherlock’s hard cock.  He wrapped his hand around it and gave a firm squeeze, and Sherlock cried out.

“That’s it, just like that,” John said, barely aware that he was speaking as he continued to pump steadily in and out of Sherlock’s arse and slowly drag one hand up and down the length of his cock.  “Come for me, Sherlock.  I want to feel you coming around my cock.  God, you’re so fucking gorgeous.”

Sherlock’s breath was coming faster as John fucked him and pumped his cock, his head tipping up now as he moaned.  John increased the speed of his thrusts and started working Sherlock’s cock harder, reveling in the incredible sight of Sherlock Holmes completely lost to pleasure.

“God, yes, Sherlock.  Come on, come for me, fuck!”

And John felt Sherlock’s internal muscles start to pulse and clamp down on his cock just before Sherlock let out a long, loud, rippling moan and his cock jumped in John’s grip, strings of semen pulsing out to paint the floor and drip down John’s hand.  John kept pumping him until Sherlock gave one final, shuddering sigh and went limp beneath him, only John’s grip on his hip and the support of the chair keeping him from collapsing face-down onto the ground.

At the feeling of Sherlock’s complete and total surrender, John lost control of himself.

He brought his semen-covered hand back up to grip Sherlock’s hip and started thrusting into him as hard as he could, slamming his cock home in Sherlock’s arse over and over.  He could feel the walls of Sherlock’s passage still clenching down even as the body beneath him was soft and pliant, and the contrast made his eyes roll back.  He let his head fall backward, eyes slipping shut, and just fucked Sherlock’s willing body with abandon.

His orgasm burst over him hard and unexpectedly, his whole body suddenly clenching tight and then rocked with the most intense pleasure he had ever felt.  He yelled wordlessly and hunched forward over Sherlock’s prone form, thrusting shallowly as he rode out his orgasm, spilling himself into the tight, slick passage.

When he became aware of himself again, he was lying atop Sherlock’s back where he was still supported by the chair, both of them panting.  Without a word, he rocked back on his knees to take some of his weight off of Sherlock, and then reached out and pulled the twisted shirt from around his wrists.  Sherlock’s arms instantly dropped forward to push up off the chair.  John wrapped an arm around his waist and pulled him up.  Then he tipped them both to the side, careful to support Sherlock’s weight, and lay them down on their sides on the sitting room rug, his cock still half-hard and buried in Sherlock’s arse.  Sherlock made a contented noise at the change in position and relaxed, making no attempt to move.

John wrapped both arms around Sherlock and squeezed him close, dropping gentle kisses onto the back of his neck.  After a moment, Sherlock raised his hand and stroked it softly across the back of John’s arm.

“I am sorry, you know.  For scaring you,” Sherlock said in a soft voice.

John sighed, a weary melancholy sound, and pushed his nose into the soft short hair growing at the base of Sherlock’s skull.  “Yeah, I know.”

The adrenaline that had been pulsing in his blood before was gone now, taking with it his anger and will to fight, and all he could feel was exhaustion.  He knew that Sherlock still did not really understand, and that they would probably face a similar situation again at some point in the future.  But for now, Sherlock was alive and well and magnificent in his arms, and that was enough.

**Author's Note:**

> There is a Sherlock Fanfiction auction going on to raise money for Tumblcon. I'm a contributing author, under the name ScarlettWatson because that's my pen name over on FF.Net. If you would like a personalized fic and want to donate money to a good cause, please head over and check it out. There are some awesome authors contributing!
> 
> (And because I have no idea how to do click-through links, here are some urls.)
> 
> Fanfic Auction Author Masterlist: http://sherlocktcusa.livejournal.com/38159.html  
> My bids page: http://sherlocktcusa.livejournal.com/38561.html


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